It was the smell of smoke that woke Ian the next morning. He started awake, eyes red-rimmed and sticky, looking about his office for the fire, then groaned as he realized the smell was coming from him.

He stank of smoke.

"Gods, Skye will kill me. Another night away at the office." He pushed himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the cot, ran one hand through the mane of tangled blond hair, wincing as he hit what was practically a knot of hair. He wrinkled his nose in distaste; he'd practically collapsed here last night after returning to the Hall and hadn't had time to do more than a quick wash up beforehand. He stood, padding barefoot across the office to the door and then stuck his head out. "Timmons!"

"Aye, milord?"

"Coffee! Now! Please?"

A dry chuckle came from the bottom of the stairs. "Of course, milord."

Ian moved back into his office, walking over to a large cabinet and opened the door to reveal several changes of uniform. He chose one set and tossed it on the cot, then took down a cotton bag, opened it, and withdrew a bar of soap Skye had given him just the other day for just such occasions. He was going to head straight to the baths across the way at the Hall as soon as he'd had something to eat and spoken with Timmons. If for nothing else, Ian thought, Merlin should be honored for restoring the old Roman heated baths.

The sound of boots on stairs heralded the arrival of Timmons with coffee, and, for a wonder, Marcus behind him, bearing biscuits and honey on a tray. "Good day, Commander." He set the tray on the desk. "Break fast is served." A flurry of coffee being poured into mugs and honey being spread on the rolls followed before the three men finally began discussing the events of the past night.

"I sent young Gryffyd out to the Stonage place to ask the brother to come in for a talk. Didn't say…" he paused to swallow a piece of biscuit and take a swallow of coffee, "why though. Told him to bring that man servant, too."

Marcus snorted. "No doubt he didn't notice anything amiss when the servant returned without Ellontin, hmm?"

"Damn! Well, you try breathing smoke and thinking clearly afterwards!"

"This man, Jefferson, they tell me he is a bit simple minded. He might well have returned home without Gerlad Stonage knowing he had." Ian pointed out. "In fact, he may well have expected Ellontin and his man to stay over in town. At any rate, he's in for a shock."

"Aye, that he is. And I expect that Jefferson is terrified. You don't think he's our killer, I hope?" Marcus pushed his empty mug over to a far corner of the desk.

Ian shook his head. "I can't eliminate anyone, but I seriously doubt it. From what I've been able to gather last night, he doesn't leave the Stonage Estates often, and even then usually not by himself. I think he's not a likely candidate." He started to swipe at his hair with his right hand, then stopped as he realized his fingers were sticky from honey. Marcus smiled, handed Ian a napkin, then held out his other hand palm up to Timmons. The sergeant sighed and dropped a gold coin into Marcus' hand. Ian tossed the napkin on the tray and continued. "What do we know about the Stonage brothers?"

"They're one of the families that moved here from Flaxley when the famine hit those parts a few years back. Rich `uns they say, almost as rich as those O`Donnells."

"Brought a fair number of their tenants and retainers with them, too." added Marcus.

"Flaxley. Not Flaxley again! Damn!" Now Ian did swipe at his hair. "We keep coming back to Flaxley. Every one of the victims has some tie to Flaxley! DAMN!"

Marcus frowned. "Everyone? I don't recall that Anthone was from there."

"I'll bet you a gold coin he was!" said Timmons.

"And I think if you question Nicholas again and ask we'll find that Timmons is right." Ian finished his coffee. " See to it, will you, Marcus?"

"Aye, milord."

"Anything for me, sir?"

"Aye, Timmons. Send a patrol down to Tunney Hill. A little bird named Tyralor informs me that some poor sod named Noral was hung down there the other day just for carving a set of blocks for his newborn niece, and that four of his `judges" were hung themselves in reprisal. I want it known down there we frown on people taking the law into their own hands. For that matter, I'll have a notice made up and sent about the villages about that very thing."

"Very well, milord. I'll lead some men there as soon as we're done. I'll lay down the law to them."

Marcus stood, reaching for the tray. " And I take it you'll question the men from Stonage, sir?"

"Aye, and I'm going to visit the glovers here in Camelot, to see if any recognize that glove that I found from the killing of young Tyler. But first…" He stood, gathering clean clothes, soap, and then his boots "…things first."

"I'm going to take a bath."

Blackthorn 04/2001


Field of Death: Part XI

"Somebody cut that poor sod down from there, now."

It was noon hour in the village of Tunney's Hill, and a group of villagers shielded their eyes as best they could to stare at the man who had given that command. He was a sergeant in the Black Watch, that much could be seen by the insignia on his tunic and the badge of rank just to its left. Still and all, who was this man to come riding in to their home? And tell them how to mete out justice? There was an uneasy silence as villagers and soldiers stared each other down.

The sergeant cursed, removing his helmet to rest it on his knee and spat on the ground. "Alright. Who was this poor bastard?"

"Eban" a voice called from the back of the crowd.

The sergeant nodded at this, watching as two of his men cut down the body. "And just what did this old man do that got him a chance to go dangling like an apple from yon tree?"

"He hung my sons!" A red-faced man shoved his way to the front of the crowd to confront the soldier. "Four boys! All dead!"

The rider sucked his teeth, shook his head. "Mighty spry of him, wasn't it? One old man hanging four younger ones?"

"He had help! His brother and his sons helped!"

"Hmm. I see! And why did they hang your sons?"

"Because they did what you fancy Camelot warriors couldn't, they hung Eban's nephew, the murderer who leaves blocks. They caught Noral in the act, carving up a whole set of those things, and they made sure he'd not strike again."

"And this was, when?"

"Two nights ago!"

The sergeant gave a pained expression. "Then either Noral is very tricky indeed, or your sons hung an innocent man, for another murder took place the very next night in Camelot town. Which, I wonder, do you think is the case here?" He stared at the villager, who seemed suddenly to shrink inward. "I suppose the next step is for poor Eban's kin to hang you now, isn't it?"

The man stammered, trying to melt back into the crowd. Two of the soldiers dismounted and kept him from getting too far as their sergeant ran a hand through curly brown hair just starting to grey at the temples. He began to speak in a voice that was not loud, but that none there had any problem in hearing. "This is the way it is. I'm Sergeant Timmons, and I'm here to stop this stupid game you..." he searched for the word--- "Tunneyites are playin'. So, I'm startin' a new game:"

"One. Nobody hangs anyone else. You do, that's murder, and you die."

"Two. Nobody even talks about hangin' someone. That's incitin' a riot, disturbin' the king's peace, accessory to murder, and just all around a pain in my arse. Do it, that's a crime, and you will go to the dungeons…where you may die."

"Three. No stonings, no canings, no whippings, no stabbings, drownings, pressings, dunkings, hackings, clubbings, buryings, or any other such like group or individual pursuits that'll end up with some poor dumb sod dead just because he is standing about with a toy block in his hand!"

"Four. Only people allowed to even SAY the word hang, are the women, and that only in relation to their wash lines."

"Five. No evil eyes! No rocks through peoples' windows, no threats written in blood on doors, no barn fires. I catch anyone out and about, up to mischief, and it's off to the dungeons… where you may die because you were too stupid to take what I say here to heart."

"This is outrageous!" Timmons shook his head, pointing at the body of Bean lying on the ground. "No sir, that is. And the deaths of your sons, and of young Noral as well. Milord Blackthorn sent me here to stop this idiocy, and I'm stopping' it RIGHT NOW!"

Some of the men muttered angrily. "You can't be serious!" yelled one. "You wouldn't dare treat us like this."

Timmons smiled sweetly, then spat on the ground once more before answering. "Care to wager on that?"

Blackthorn 5/2001


Field of Death: Part XII

The sun shone, and cloud shadows sailed over the grass. Behind him, clean sheets snapped loudly on the breeze, and the hair on the man in front of Ian lifted a bit.

It was the only thing moving on the dead man.

"Damn it, Ian! The girl says it was minutes!"

He looked up at Skye and nodded. "He's getting bolder. He's killing in the daylight now." Turning back to the seated body he gently pried the carved wooden toy block from one rigid hand. "That might work to advantage now: more of a chance he might be seen." Ian stood with the block, then looked about until he spotted Marcus.

"Marcus, I want you and your men to fan out. Visit every farm and cottage in the area, and ask if anyone saw anybody this morning walking or riding to or from here. And get the trackers going, Maybe we'll have some luck this time."

Skye laid one hand on his arm. "Ian, I 'm going with Marcus. I have some of my men here with me; we'll cover more ground with more troops." She gave his arm a gentle squeeze before she threw propriety to the wind and gave him a quick kiss. "We'll catch this bastard, love." Then she moved briskly away, the scent of sandalwood lingering in her wake for a few seconds.

Ian watched her ride off with the others. Then he steeled himself to once more face the pain in the eyes of yet another grieving survivor.

*********

Evening found him still recalling the look in the eyes of the girl.

He sat in his office, the lettered blocks spread out before him, the unmarked one set off to one side. In all his career as a warrior, he had never felt as helpless as he did dealing with this maniac. He fought the urge to fling the blocks out into the moat.

Six dead. Six people dead, six brothers or sisters left to mourn. So there were really twelve victims at least, for the pain the killer caused would be a long time healing. He reached over, idly picking up the blank block and turning it over and over again in his hands. He'd never been close to his half brother, Sethan, his brother by blood. Not as close as he felt to Corwin, the brother of his heart.

...cold eyes, rigid face to match the cold of the Mid-Winter's night. A lithe figure astride a horse, so sure of his seat that elf and beast seem one entity. Sethan, older brother, full of disdain and contempt for his half-mortal sib. He turns his mount away to join their uncle Yarrow as Rowan hides a frown.

"I'm sorry, Ianno," their birth mother says. "I'd hoped with time…"

"Perhaps another century or two?" he answers...

There had been no century to try to reconcile with Sethan, no time to bridge the gap between them. Ian rolled the block across his desk to hit the others. He'd long ago stopped wondering about that might have been, if Sethan and he had become as close as he now was with Corwin. But, he thought, Skye had been right in her assessment of Sethan as they talked quietly one night in their bed. "Half-elven or full blooded, Ian, it would have made no difference. He was jealous, plain and simple. It's the oldest story in the world, the older child feeling displaced by the younger."

His hand froze in mid-reach for the uncarved block as a soft curse left his lips. He reached instead for pen and parchment, and wrote quickly:

To the Lord and Lady O'Donnell,
Greetings. I'm sure you are now aware of the continued deaths of former residents of your Flaxley holdings. I write this to ask if you are aware of any incidents in Flaxley in the past of such a violent nature between brothers? In particular, where an older brother attacked a younger. Or perhaps a circumstance in which an older child was passed over in favor of a younger in a question of inheritance?

Any cases in which a mother has died in giving birth to a second child may also be of aid. Anything, any instance where siblings may have fought, is of possible importance in solving these heinous crimes.

Please reply as soon as you are able or let me know if you feel a meeting would be more efficient. Send word back with this messenger if the latter is the case.

Ian Blackthorn

He summoned a rider and sent the message on its way to Valorward, then started down the stairs himself, bound for the Great Hall. At the foot of the stairs, he nearly bowled over Timmons, fresh back from patrol. The sergeant fell in beside him as they crossed the courtyard.

"How was patrol?"

Timmons grinned. "Caught us a slaver."

"You followed procedure for that?" Ian didn't miss a stride, listening as they strode onwards

"Aye, freed the slaves, hung the head trader in their chains, took the guards to the docks to be shipped across to Spain for the galleys there." There was a note of satisfaction in Timmons' voice; Camelot was notorious for its refusal to tolerate slavery in any shape or form. "So, where we going?"

"To talk with Chamberlain. I'm sure he has the records on immigrants from Flaxley. Maybe we can get some clue from them."

But when they entered the Hall, they found the familiar figure absent from his desk. A note signed Donitello Ferlita, Chamberlain of Camelot, told of a summons to attend to family matters. Ian cursed in exasperation, then motioned a few guards over and told them and Timmons what they must find. In a few minutes, the neat desk and the cubbyholes on the wall behind it had been rifled through and half-open rolls of parchment were scattered all about.

"Ian! What did you do?"

He looked up as Skye strode across the room. "I know, I know, it's a mess. But I have to find those Flaxley records!"

Skye shook her head. "Remind me never to send you into my herb room to fetch anything." She turned green eyes to the desk. "Didn't you ask him earlier to find those? Did you check Chamberlain's desk?"

"They weren't on it."

"Ah. But what about in it?" She opened one draw, then another. On the third try, a small drawer, she removed a worn leather book. "Hmm. The dungeon records. Chamberlain certainly has a lot of records of things you wouldn't expect." She looked back in the drawer. "Wait. What's this?" And with a small laugh of triumph, Skye turned and handed him a sheath of paper bound with a neatly tied black ribbon.

Written on the top sheet, in Chamberlain's neat hand, were the words: "A Record of Flaxley Settlers in the Environs of Camelot and Their Holdings."

"Is that what we are looking for, Ian?"

Blackthorn 05/2001